


Stray sheep

by enigmaticme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gang Rape, Horrible stuff, horrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticme/pseuds/enigmaticme





	Stray sheep

You don't know what age you are when it happens for the first time. You're young, with slim legs, and barely   
budding breasts. He takes you by surprise, zaps you in the middle of the foyer without any kind of warning. The   
distortion sickness, you're used to. Having hungry eyes roam over your body, you're not. Not all of the Felt are there,   
of course. Some of them have dignity, self-respect. None of the ones accounted for have anything reminiscent of that in   
their eyes. Your hands are bound behind your back, before you realize what's going on, hands tugging you into the proper   
form harshly. They're soft, yet firm. You'd know those hands anywhere.

"You're not incorrect," he doesn't quite "say" it, so much as let horrid vibrations loose inside of your head. If he   
hadn't had a solid, white globe for a head, you'd be sure that he was smirking. "This is not by my order, if it means   
anything to you. I know it does not. I know everything, remember?" They continue to watch, like starving dogs, the only   
thing in their way the ever present leash that always had, and always will be around their and your necks. Not him,   
though. He doesn't have any kind of stare. It pisses you off the most. Those quick, deft hands trace patterns over your   
shoulders, your neck, your jaw. It's passive, by its own rights, but it's also posessive. Not posessive in the sense that   
he's claming anything. More like appraising something he already has. You hate it. You hate it, you hate it, you hate it.   
Your stomach churns with that liquid black hate, and he only chuckles, presumably at some cosmic joke that only he   
understands.

Before you can protest, not that you could've in the first place, he slips his hands lower. Lets them cup your   
small, teacup breasts in his hands, fingers pinching at the tips. You're not stupid. You know what he's doing, know that   
this is all a show for those disgusting bastards in the audience. And yet you can't stop your treacherous body from   
quaking, can't stop your knees from wanting to give out. They don't. You WILL them to not. But his roaming over your body   
leaves you with no illusions. He places his hands on your shoulders, and pushes down, stronger than you can resist.   
Stronger than anyone could resist. You're on your knees, and the fat fucker, Sawbuck you think his name is? He strides   
right up towards you, right on cue. Without even needing a command from Scratch, he whips his cock out, presses it   
against your cheek. You just about bite it right the fuck off. Scratch is too omnipotent for that, though. He's got your   
chin in his hands, turning you away just right, just so damn firmly. And then he pulls down, makes your jaw ache open,   
you're face fiercely contesting him. It doesn't matter. It never matters. Something gets shoved in between your dull   
teeth, and it tastes like metal and leather. You don't know what it is, but it holds your mouth open in a perfect "O".   
And you can see Sawbuck grinning, or at least not drooling like a fucking idiot like normal.

Scratch's arms are no longer in the equation, but neither are your teeth or hands or legs. There are two hands on   
your horns, greedily grasping them, making you whine at the feeling of it. And then he just stuffs his length in, doesn't   
even give you time to breathe, forcing it right down your convulsing throat. Translucent, burgandy tears bead at the   
corners of your eyes, your first face-fucking leaving you without much to hold on to. Your lungs are burning as he keeps   
just fucking thrusting, but it's blessedly quick, impotence doing most of the work for you. Not that he gives you   
anything, anyways. He pulls out, and you sputter and choke, saliva trailing off his cock and off your lips, and a   
healthy dose of thick, white cum hits you square in the face. You're disgusted, disgusted with him, disgusted with the   
entire fucking situation. Disgusted because you're not strong enough to stop this.

He totters off, a happier camper you could not find, and you wish more than anything that you could shoot him   
right through his torso. But it seems like you're not done yet, and it's definitely apparent that Scratch never left in   
the first place. You're lifted up, and while you're certain he could've just teleported you, he wants you to know just   
how little power you actually have. Your chest is pressed onto a flat surface, momentarily knocking out the only wind   
you've had in the last five minutes or so. You know what's coming next, can feel it as he lifts up the back of your   
skirt. Or is it him? You have no way of knowing. It could be anyone's hands groping your plush, grey ass right now. They   
don't even have the decency to pull your panties off, the fucking bastards. They just get tugged out of the way, a finger   
coming down to stroke your cunt. "Get a load a how wet she is, boys!" It wasn't true. You were dry as a bone. But that   
probably wasn't the point. And neither was it the point when, after you can hear the shifting of some cloth, you can feel   
something long and hot and blisteringly painful stuff inside of you. You'd cry, you'd scream and shout and maybe even   
beg, but you can't. That ring-gag, which is what you'll later learn what it is, prevents that. So you just whine, and   
gurgle incomprehensively, as that length just pumps in and out as it pleases. It's fast, and painful, and you begin   
sobbing, crying out when you feel your blood trickle down your thighs. It's not just the pain. The pain you're used to.   
You're used to being battered, and bruised, and even asphyxiated. The worst part is the pleasure, the back-end of your   
brain making you get off on this. Because despite everything, it's still some kind of physical contact. Again, he's quick   
to come, and you're not sure if it was more degrading than what you've already been put through, when he slams his hips   
against your ass and fills you up with that putrescence. That warm, disgusting, depraving feeling filling your belly up.

You're panting, crotch burning with pain and the lingering feelings of disappointment. While you don't want him back in   
there, while you're still utterly fucking disgusted with him, you still need... something. You hate it, hate it when they   
pick you up again, and pass you around like some kind of cheap, plastic doll. Everyone of their faces, you glare at. You   
glare fucking death at them, for doing this to you. And one day, oh, one day you'll have it.

One of them lays himself on the ground, gets all comfy. Die, you think his name is. He looks like he's scared, like someone's blackmailing him to be here. It doesn't matter to you. His cock is still hard, and that's enough to make you want to eviscerate him. You get seated in his lap, just after they take away your sullen panties, and he's got his hands on your hips with that pervertedly cowed look on his face. He doesn't leer at you though, so you suppose if you ever got the chance to kill him, you'd be mercifully quick. He's not, though. You get the feeling that he at least knows how to fucking touch a woman, which is a blessing in its own right. You're not really all that sure, to be honest. On one hand, you're angry. You're furious, and want nothing more than to punch holes into all of these bastards. On the other, you're ruefully aroused, all of their interactions finding some part of your brain that you'll kill off later. Later, but not now. Now you just want to fix that utter lackadaisical feeling of pleasure right between your legs. It's the latter that he helps out with, at the very least. He's got his thumb on your freshly split open cunt, rubbing at the little bud you did not even know was there. You whimper, you whimper and whine and even grind your hips against his hand. They all   
laugh, excepting him, calling you a whore. You can't seem to begin to care. You need this, damn it, after all the things   
you've been put through. You've got the underside of his shaft slick, with more fluids than you'd care to identify, and   
you can feel him lifting you up. No, wait. There are two too many hands on you right now. There's an extra pair on your   
ass, and you can't turn your head enough to see anything more than just more of that fucking green. He doesn't seem to be   
doing much of anything, right now, and you could honestly afford to give more fucks. Die puts the head of his cock right   
past your labia, his thumb not leaving your clit, not for one second stopping in that glorious rubbing. And yet...   
someone else is doing some rubbing of their own. You wonder what it is that guy is doing back there- Fuck! You scream   
out, in that gurgled kind of way, as you feel him wiggle a slickened pair of fingers into your asshole. What the hell did   
he think he was doing?!

It's almost empathetic, when Die moves his fingers a bit more vigorously, making you teeter in between the pleasure and pain. It doesn't stop you from crying out, when the hands on your body push you right down onto his length. He wasn't so well endowed, but your petite body couldn't quite take him in one fell swoop. You grind on the solid pillar of flesh buried hilt deep inside of you, starting to sob some more, getting so close to... to SOMETHING. Something so blindingly hot and novel that you just need a little bit more. But your hips are stilled, and you can almost FEEL them grinning at you. "Ah ah ah, you're forgettin' about the rest of us, girlie." You're so pan addled that you can't even recognize the voice. But you do recognize the prick pushed up towards your face. Recognize that ache in your jaw, that you had tried to forget, when the ring gag is taken out of your mouth. "Suck it, don't bite. Bite it and you'll fuckin' regret it, you lil bitch." You so badly want to tear it off of his crotch. So badly want to do something other than what you're legitmately considering. But you just attribute it to something you can do some other day.

They all coo and hoot, as you close your eyes, and wrap those pouty lips along the dick in your face, sucking on it like you actually have some experience doing this kind of fucking thing. Which, you don't. But it's not like the guy you're blowing can tell, considering the fact that he swears something underneath is breath. There's no longer one finger stuffed up your ass, but two, and it's slathering around some kind of horribly slick substance. You don't want to know   
what he's doing, don't want to know what he's ABOUT to be doing. You just have two things on your mind, two objectives   
you have to meet. They let you shift your hips against Die, let you get some more of the lovely god damned friction   
inside of you. And you, in turn, let that fucker with his cock in your mouth feel the touch of your hot, little tongue,   
instead of your teeth. There's an obscene sucking sound, coming from you, your hair mussing in front of your face as you   
shift against the people using you. The fingers inside leave, and you feel the emptiness. But it's not long until you can   
hear the shifting of zippers and cloth, not much longer until the tip of his length pressing against what his fingers had   
been working over. You pull your mouth off of the OTHER cock to protest, to beg, to exclaim "No no no no no no no   
nonoooo!!" But he doesn't listen, doesn't give you any kind of leeway, just stuffs himself right inside. It's horrid,   
blistering pain, and you start to scream. But between the other two pricks you're supposed to satisfy, you're just not   
doing your job. Because someone else grabs you by the horns again, shoves himself right into your protien chute, all the   
while laughing as you choke and sputter and continue to try and cry out. "Dude, keep doin' that, holy hell. You should   
feel this chick's throat when she's screamin', hot damn!" You're stuffed full to the brim, and they just keep pumping in   
more, keep thrusting themselves in and out of you, until you lose where you are. Who you are. You're sobbing again, all   
while they fuck you up and down like some kind of blow-up doll. You cum, right then and there, the sensations too much   
for you to even realize that you had, and Die's eyes close as he works against the other two's force, to pump his cock   
into you with a lot more roughness. The one in your ass reaches his climax before him, however, and there's nothing great   
about that. There's nothing great, because he moves you over a bit more, pounds your poor backside, stuffs Die deeper and   
deeper until you cum again, far too soon and far too intense, whining around the thick length in your throat as you feel   
two more rounds of white-hot spunk shooting off inside of you. No, count that as three. It's salty, and gross, and it   
makes your mouth feel like the rest of your body. And it's only after that, that they let you down. Let you rest on the   
floor, your chest heaving in exhaustion.

"Very good, Handmaiden." It's Doc Scratch again. You turn your half-lidded eyes up towards him, the globe of his head haloing against the dim light behind him. "You handled two more than I had previously expected." You know he's lying. You know that he knows everything. You KNOW that he's still condescending to you, even now. "I believe that will conclude today's lesson. I am sure all of you will be looking forward... to next week." And you also know that, if he had a mouth, he'd be grinning at you. "Fuck you," you rasp towards him, too tired to even pick up your head.

"I think you've had enough of doing that for one setting, Handmaiden."

He zaps you off into your room, and you simply lay there, cum-slicked and degraded beyond all belief. You curl up against your sheets, pull them onto your body. He'll clean them. He always cleans them. You always make him clean them, though you know he does it regardless on how you feel.

And then, and only then, do you actually cry. You cry quietly, endlessly, until you fall asleep. And then you dream, of anger, and blood. And, for all intents, it is one of the happiest dreams you've had.


End file.
